Road to Nowhere
by Star1086
Summary: "The man's tall, over six feet with a mess of overgrown brown hair that's just on this side of curly and a thick line painted between his eyebrows. Daryl's more concerned with the automatic handgun that's pointed at him than the guy's size." Daryl meets a stranger.


A/N: Technically, this is a crossover fic with JJ Abram's Fringe. But FFN takes crossovers and pretty much hides them in their own thread, so for accessibility sake, it's going find a home in Walking Dead's filter. Takes place after Fringe's Northwest Passage's canon and directly before Walking Dead's Tell It to the Frogs. Because Daryl Dixon and Peter Bishop are too bad-assed to not be together in some universe. Title ripped from Talking Heads. Also, I don't own anything. If I did, these dudes would rule the apocalypse.

* * *

Daryl wakes from blackness with his head burning like a sonofabitch, dirt caked in the creases of his face and the corners of his eyes. He realizes that he's belly down against the ground, his arms tied behind him and he knows he's not alone and as sure as hell in trouble. Two men stand over him, blotting out the sun and if the rope tying him wasn't enough of a warning that things were terribly wrong, it's the slick snarl flexed into a grin that the pair of assholes share that makes Daryl's blood run cold. They stand, cocked like they've struck gold and Daryl's struggling like a whipped horse before a single word's even been exchanged.

"Now, c'mon here boy," the first one grins, teeth yellow and his belly bulging over his jeans. "Ain't gonna eat ya. It's an apocalypse out here, we live folks gotta stick together." His companion snickers as he whumps the other on the back; two men with a lifetime of inbreeding between them. Daryl's arms pull as he tries to get off his chest. Being facedown isn't a place he wants to be.

"Get near me and I'll wipe them smiles clean off yer face," he growls. He only garners more chuckles.

Suddenly there's a quick blast and Daryl can't twitch as the first man's head snaps backward, the plastered smile of the second man barely flinching before his head all but disappears from his shoulders. Their bodies drop a few feet from where Daryl lies and he almost chokes from the shock of waiting for his turn.

"Stay where you are—don't move," says the new voice behind Daryl so he stays dead silent, his arms strained behind his back where his hands are still bound; shoulders burning from the angle. He's still on guard, tightly coiled as he tries to feel out the direction where the voice is coming from, his crossbow out of reach and the sun beating down on his overheated neck. The bite of gravel grinds into the skin of his knees as he's bent over in the woods of Georgia's backcountry.

"Friends of yours?" the voice continues, closing up on Daryl's left and he has to keep himself from twisting to look for the guy, knowing firsthand what happens when a jumpy animals surprises an itchy trigger finger, and Daryl has no desire to get his head blown off too. The man's voice is confident but his accent's all off, not from the area.

"Nah," Daryl says as calmly as he can muster after watching his two attackers faces getting blown off, "ain't no friends of mine." He sees the outline of the shadow creeping across the dirt and blood and Daryl steals a sideways glance, sweat dripping down his back. "Jus' some assholes trying to steal my bow."

"Looks like they were interested in more than just the bow."

Daryl grinds down hard on his teeth, seething and eyes slit.

"Any other weapons?" the voice continues, guarded and clipped and Daryl thinks _cop_ before the strain to his arms hits him and he stutters, his shoulders rolling when he hears the click and he's forced to freeze. He thinks _hell_ before looking the guy full in the face, because he's not going to die a coward if he's about to get his head blasted off too. The man's tall, over six feet with a mess of overgrown brown hair that's just on this side of curly and a thick line painted between his eyebrows. Daryl's more concerned with the automatic handgun that's pointed at him than the guy's size; sees the stranger's defensive stance and the heavy backpack that's slung around his shoulders. He's a traveler.

The smell of the carnage is thick in the air, the sick stench of death from the two red-necked pricks that jumped him and his stomach flips when he realizes there are bigger issues at hand than one guy with a gun.

"A jackknife in my pocket and a Bowie on my belt," he admits. The man's face is shadowed behind the smattering of week-old stubble, his clear blue eyes dangerous and Daryl's pretty sure he ain't ever gonna get back to Merle and the group.

"What'cha doing out here?" Stranger asks, taking another step to kick his bow out of the path that the blood's running from the holes in the men's heads, also taking it further from Daryl. Not that it'll help presently, seeing he's still tied up. Daryl takes an angry breath, his arms shaking now.

"Daryl," he snaps. "Name's Daryl Dixon."

"Okay," the man says, matching Daryl's edged tone. "What'cha doing out here, _Daryl Dixon?"_

"Was huntin'," he says, "before these pricks blindsided me." Daryl shifts his legs a little to take the strain off his back. The man notices, and the gun is newly focused on Daryl's head.

"Easy," Daryl hushes. "Easy now. You're the one with the gun. Ain't no reason to be twitchy. I ain't goin' nowhere." He cocks his head back towards his tied hands and the man relaxes. Slightly.

"I haven't had the best luck with strangers," the man says.

Daryl grimaces. Damn his arms hurt.

"You ain't the one hogtied," Daryl says as he looks to the headless bodies. "They're gonna attract some attention here though." The man's face tightens but he doesn't look away. Deliberating.

"Can you get yourself out?" the stranger asks like he's itching to leave again. Daryl heaves a sigh of relief, nodding once through the sun that's near blinding as it sets.

"That is a nice bow," the man says conversationally as he slides his gun into the holster under the coat he's wearing. "Don't use it to shoot me in the back." He sounds like he's forcing a joke but Daryl doesn't laugh. He just nods again and counts his lucky stars that he's not gonna get jacked and have to find another one.

The man takes a step backward and Daryl watches in silence, not trusting that he won't change his mind if he makes a wrong move. He catches a rustling sound in the wrong direction; a wet choking that Daryl recognizes and the thrumming in his arms explodes as he twists in time to spot the small group of walkers stumbling into the clearing. It's a small group, not more than four but it's enough.

"Fuck," Daryl breathes at the same time as the stranger does, and almost breaks his wrists trying to roll them out of the restraints, trying to grapple for the knife that's too far out of reach on his belt. He twists the other direction and the man's already disappeared, and he knows his ass is toast. Saves him from rednecks only to be eaten alive by Walkers. Perfect.

"God damn," he continues a long string of angry muttering as he fights his way to his knees even as the first of the four find him, and the best Daryl can do is kick himself back from the dead bodies to try to distance himself and hope the vermin ain't in the mood to chase. The first of them, an old farmer looking one in tattered overalls stumbles to its knees to rip into the stomach of the dead man and Daryl heaves a dry breath until two others sight him. One of them is a hollowed naked woman with bones poking out sickly from inside her chest. The other one's only got a bloodied shirt left to it. He doesn't see where the last one's gone.

"Come and get me, you goddamned motherless corpse!" he shouts as he raises but he overcorrects as he stumbles, the strain too much on his arms and he's on his back with his arms pinned under him. The naked Walker ignores the dead meat and stumbles its way over to him, face so rotted that its skin is sliding off its skull in chunks and Daryl kicks at it but his angle's all wrong, hitting air instead of body and he's sure as fucked.

There's crack in the air and the body lands onto him hard, knocking the air out of his chest and clouding his vision. There's no pain though, and he realizes the Walker's dead before he kicks it off. The stranger appears over him, eyes flashing brightly as he helps to pull the body off, taking aim and firing at another one that must have heard the first round.

"Didn't think you were gonna come back," Daryl says through heavy breaths, trying to sit up as the man attempts to pull loose the restraints at Daryl's wrists.

"Makes two of us," the man replies curtly, halfway around the second knot before the farmer notices them and changes direction from its meal.

"Company," Daryl seethes, "watch yerself." The man twists to aim the gun but the Walker's too fast and he doesn't get it around in time before it grabs the man's wrist to push him over Daryl, and they all stumble to the ground, the gun wrestled loose and dirt being kicked into his face. Daryl's able to loosen the knots enough to pull his wrist free as the fourth one stalks toward them to join the struggle, the man's voice a steady streams of cursing under the writhing Walker's body and Daryl thinks for a split second that he's close enough to grab his bow and get the hell out of there while they're distracted. It's exactly what Merle would do. Save his own skin.

It's short-lived. He ain't his brother.

He grabs the Bowie knife from his belt to push into the Walker's throat whose mouth is covered with bits of flesh and blood, stabbing under its jaw to sink into the soft flesh and not stopping until he feels the resistance of skull before he pulls it back.

"Take your fucking time!" he hears from underneath the half-naked body, the man's arms flailing against chipped teeth as it tries to snap down on the stranger's arms. Daryl hustles up behind it, trying to get a clear shot.

"Keep 'em still." Daryl orders as the man tries to hold onto something other than slicked, bloodied skin.

"Is that a joke?" he snarls, voice high and panicked. "You're fucking joking?!"

Daryl catches it on a downward swing with the Bowie and there's a cracking noise as the Walker gags before it slides off the blade, blood squirting from its skull and Daryl helps to push the body off the stranger who's dropped back against the earth with his chest heaving.

"Well," the man gasps, not finishing his thoughts.

Daryl wipes the knife off on his pants, the blood unnaturally cool against his skin. "Others'll have heard the shots. There'll be more." It's not a few seconds after Daryl helps to haul the stranger to his feet that more of the dead shuffle into the brush line. The man's face is bleached white as he looks at the oncoming figures like he's caught in the headlights.

"You shoot me and you'll regret it," Daryl warns as he grabs his bow while the ruffled stranger grabs his gear and they take off before they end up like the dicks that are nothing but bone and guts left to them.

"Ammos expensive," the stranger quips in way of an answer, hesitating for a few moments before following after Daryl and away from the Walkers.

Daryl doesn't lead them back toward camp, satisfied that the stranger won't shoot him outright but not willing to compromise anything else. He veers them off course, runs blindly for several unsteady miles as they try to stay ahead of any noise that could signal more danger. Daryl's near blind with exhaustion, his skin crawling violently when they finally stop to catch their breath.

"Hang on for a second, I'm gonna puke," the man staggers and thank God because Daryl doesn't think he can run anymore. The sun is dwindling behind him, taking the warmth with it and he plants both hands on his knees to try to take a cool breath even though his lungs are on fire.

"You're pretty spry for an old guy," the stranger says before he coughs and spits, fingers crossed behind his head, cheeks bright pink.

"Who you callin' old there, boy?" Daryl says trying to pull himself upright. His arms burn even though the temperature's dropping. "Run circles around your punk ass," he mutters.

The stranger grins, even though he really does look like he's gonna be sick. "Haven't had to run like that since Iraq."

Daryl's ears prick up.

"Where you from there, boy?" he asks, guarding himself again and touching his bow.

"Forget it," the stranger says, still huffing and waving Daryl off. He takes a look at Daryl's stone face and breathes. "And it's Peter. Peter Bishop."

"Where's home then, _Peter Bishop_." Daryl says the "B" like it's heavy on his tongue, trying to mimic Peter's straight-laced voice.

Peter squints into the distance. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Suffice it to say, I'm pretty far from home."

Daryl rolls his eyes, clicking his tongue. "Fine, whatever," he mutters, adjusting his bow against his shoulder.

There's a cracking of broken twigs and Daryl's on high alert, hearing it before Peter does and he's got his bow out and sweeping the distance.

"It's coming from the east," Peter says in hushed tones, his own gun trained in the other direction. Daryl ignores him, widening his stance and trying to get a better listen. There's another string of commotion in the distance, the sun too low for Daryl to catch a glimpse of it though.

"You crazy? It's this way," Peter grunts again when Daryl takes a step forward, trying to keep his steps dead silent. He sees the flash behind a tree and his heart jumps, squeezing the trigger just as Peter snarks at him.

"There's nothing there."

"Damn it," growls Daryl when the arrow flies off course as he squeezes off the shot too wide. It slams into the tree instead of the deer he'd been tracking hours before.

"You just cost me dinner," he mutters, giving Peter a nasty glare as he stomps over to the tree that's entombed his arrow, the deer already scattering into the darkness. "Been tracking that bitch since before those guys came along." He pulls hard on the arrow, trying to dig it out from the middle of the trunk.

"_That_ deer? That same deer?" Peter says, his face incredulous as he lowers his gun.

"Ain't many left," Daryl bitches and the arrow is finally free with a last hard tug. He shakes the arrow in front of Peter's face. "That little bastard gonna be miles out before I find it again."

"Sorry," Peter mutters as he funnels the sun from out of his eyes, trying to see where it went. Daryl's got the arrow back into his pack before the smell hits him a split second before the rot does. He was so focused on the deer that he didn't check the east, and the Walker staggers from behind the tree that Daryl pulled the arrow from faster than he can reload his bow.

There's another pop and Daryl's sprayed with brain and blood down his front. He twists his head to Peter who's grinning over the barrel of the smoking gun. Peter runs past him and this time Daryl follows, wiping the blood off his face as he goes.

Night settles before Daryl gets halfway back to camp, the stranger at his heels before they're forced to stop when Daryl loses the trail. He doesn't mention the rest of the camp, and the man doesn't ask but they stick close, Daryl with the bow and the stranger with the gun, confident enough at least that he won't get shot in the back.

They make camp when the blackness becomes overwhelming, finding a deserted area where they make a small fire with some matches Peter provides. Daryl cooks a squirrel he shot through the eye, the man watching beyond the flames in silent disgust as Daryl sucks the meat off the bones, his opened can of beans in his lap untouched.

"Ain't you never had no roadkill?" Daryl asks as he finishes off the gristle. The man's mouth pulls into a deep frown.

"Never had the pleasure."

"Missing out," Daryl mutters as he chucks the bones into the blackened tree line. The only flutters of sound that trickle through the air are the occasional pops of the fire. The silence isn't comfortable, and Daryl's bow never leaves his hip. Neither does the man's gun.

"So," Daryl says as he polishes off the meat. "You ain't huntin'. And you ain't from Georgia. You're with the fuzz." The man's eyebrows shoot nearly off his forehead.

"That so?" the man says, amused.

Daryl's face is smug, cleaning the Bowie with his handkerchief. Peter lays the beans next to the fire and warms his hands.

"You don't exactly sound like you're from 'round these parts. Besides, who pops two Georgian back-country pricks then comes back when there's shufflin' corpses around?"

Peter smiles.

"Can't I just say I'm an avid believer that no man should be subjected to their own personal Deliverance by the likes of those assholes?"

Daryl juts his chin out, jaw grinding again. But he waits for him to continue. Peter just sighs.

"Can't you just say thank you?"

Daryl doesn't.

Peter's face warms just beyond the whispers of flames' light. He's hunched over the fire, his fingers close enough to blister. Daryl settles back against an old tree trunk, trying to get comfortable.

"So. Iraq. You paddle over here or something?" Daryl says smoothly and Peter rolls his face in disgust.

"Not even remotely. I've been here for a while, but let's just say I'm trying to get back to Boston."

"You're a hell of a ways away."

"I was in Washington state, before things got bad. Then when things got real bad…" he cuts off. "Made it this far. All without having to resort to squirrel. What's a little bit farther?" Peter's eyes flash something that Daryl recognizes.

"Woman?"

Peter snorts, scrubbing his face and looking uncomfortable for the first time.

"No, not just a woman. For my whole family. Make sure they're alright."

"How do you even know they're still alive?"

Peter's silent for a long moment, his eyes darkened and face drawn. He shrugs, face flashing the undercurrent of anger that barely ripples below the surface. "They might not be. I've considered that too." He says.

"Then what's the point? You get there and they ain't there? Already dead? Undead." Daryl asks, exhaustion wearing on him.

"You got any family?" Peter asks, back to warming his hands as the fire dies.

Daryl's brow furrows, he doesn't like talking about Merle. Merle wouldn't have saved his ass before.

"Brother," Daryl says, tucking his hands into his armpits. "Ain't worth shit though, the son of a bitch."

Peter laughs, the whites of his teeth glowing against the fire. "Well, when you find people worth trekking through the corpse-riddled country, you'll do anything to keep them."

"Why were you in Washington then? If you got yerself family all the way in Boston?" Daryl says and it all but wipes the smile from the stranger's face. Daryl's gut twists, the prickles of uneasiness washing over him.

"I was angry." Peter says simply and Daryl thinks it's all he'll say on the subject, his face haunted. "I was lied to…by the people I care about. So I packed up and I ran. Far and as fast as I could and Washington was just as good a place as any. I left them…and this happens. Whatever hell on earth this is, whatever fucked up science experiment gone horribly wrong that made the dead reanimate into this nightmare, and I left them."

Peter's face looks haggard, and Daryl tries to not stare. He wonders how long the man's been holding onto his shit.

"I said things to my father…horrible things. And I didn't say enough to a woman that I should have. That's why I have to go back." He finally gets out.

Daryl watches Peter's face, the slump of his shoulders hanging in defeat.

"So _it is_ a woman."

The dark complexion of Peter's face is brightened for a moment before the last flames fizzle out and they're left in darkness. Daryl doesn't sleep well that night, the faces of the corpses still fresh in his mind. He figures the other man doesn't sleep either, the way he rustles and rolls against the hard land. He wonders what it'd be like to have a brother who wasn't Merle.

The day breaks too early, and after too little rest. Daryl's still sore in the shoulders and his back screams in protest when he rolls himself fully awake. He jerks upward when he takes in his surroundings, flinging into full consciousness. He automatically reaches for his bow, thankfully still at his side. He sweeps his perimeter, looking for signs of trouble. The place is silent. The man's gone. Nothing, just a small can of unopened beans with a few matches on top. Daryl picks up the can, turning it over in his hand.

"Sonofabitch," he breathes, stuffing it into his pocket along with the matches. "Hope you find yer girl, Bishop." He mutters. There's a crunching in the distance and Daryl's got his bow halfway loaded with a new arrow. It's not a corpse though. It's a deer. His deer. Strong and lean as it trots by. Daryl figures he can't be more than a few miles from camp, so he stalks down, bow in hand and hunts.


End file.
